


Top Note of the Melody

by calathea



Series: Hitting the Right Notes [2]
Category: Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-23
Updated: 2009-12-23
Packaged: 2017-10-05 01:48:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/36452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calathea/pseuds/calathea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A companion piece to When Drummers Harmonize.</p><p>Later, Patrick would wish that he'd been listening to the start of the conversation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Top Note of the Melody

Later, Patrick would wish that he'd been listening to the start of the conversation. Unfortunately, although Patrick would never ever admit to it, no matter how much you loved your best friend and frontman of your band, when that person was Pete Wentz there was sometimes only one way to deal with him. Patrick therefore really only tuned back in to find out what it was he had been nodding and smiling about (while mentally composing a hypothetical _thank you, but no_, speech he would give George Lucas when he got asked to soundtrack some future movie, that somehow gracefully took in the world of pain that Lucas deserved for Star Wars I through III) when he heard the words:

"… and that's why you'll be living with Bob Bryar while we're in LA." Pete said, and then sat back to look expectantly at Patrick.

Patrick gaped incredulously at Pete for a long moment, and then closed his eyes, hoping that when he opened them it would all turn out to be some kind of hallucination brought on by jetlag and unpronounceable European vegetables.

Unfortunately, when he blinked his eyes open again Pete was still sitting on the coach opposite him on their tour bus, beaming toothily.

"Bob? What?" Patrick said, "Why?"

"It's all organized. He's going to phone you," was all Pete said, but with a smile Patrick had come to know and fear.

"Why?" he asked again, suspiciously, but without any real expectation of an answer that made any sense in any world but Pete's. "What are you up to?

"Up to?" Pete asked, his tone of voice somewhere between genuine hurt and laughter. "I'm _helping_. You _like_ Bob."

Patrick looked at him through narrowed eyes. "Bob is cool," he agreed, cautiously, "But why exactly am I living with him in LA? I thought I was going to share with you."

Pete, though, was shaking his head. "You _like_ Bob," he said again, and waggled his eyebrows at Patrick. "You told me."

Patrick blinked at him. "What? I did not! I mean, I don't!"

"You did, or, not about Bob, but about your _type_!" Pete exclaimed, "You said, years ago, that you like blond guys, and blue eyes, and lip rings."

"And taller guys," Joe interjected absently, flicking unconcernedly through a guitar magazine. He looked up and eyed Patrick critically for a moment. "Though, well, that covers almost everyone. Except maybe Frank Iero. And that guy in that band in Cleveland. No-one in the world is smaller than that guy."

"And you like drummers," Andy called from the back of the bus.

Joe and Pete turned to stare towards the bunks. There was a sudden rustling noise.

"Not including me, obviously, or, not as far I know," Andy said, hastily, appearing at the door. "Not that Patrick couldn't be attracted to me if he wanted. I mean. Uh. I'm just saying. Drummers."

He coughed. "And Bob let you play his drums that one time, with his band, and we all know what that means."

"Oh my god," Patrick said, "Shut up."

Pete and Joe continued to stare at Andy.

"I don't know what that means," Joe said. "Wait. You let Patrick play your drums too. What does it mean?"

Andy looked apologetically at Patrick for a second, and then vanished back towards the bunks.

Joe got up and followed him. "What does it mean though?" Patrick heard him ask, his voice alarmed. "Does it mean the same if I let someone play my guitar? Dude, I let _everyone_ play my guitar."

Pete turned back to look at Patrick again, and Patrick covered his face with his hands. "I don't remember ever telling you anything about liking blonds or drummers," Patrick said, trying to sound certain.

"Liar!" Pete said. "You did. We were in, um, some little town, in a Dairy Queen. It was like, a week after you told us you maybe liked guys."

Patrick took his hands away from his face. "That was _years_ ago, Pete," he said, incredulously. "Why would you remember that? I don't even remember that. Since when did you even listen to anything I said back then?"

Pete shrugged, and then stood up and moved the couple of feet to come sit down next to Patrick, almost in his lap. He slung his arm over Patrick's shoulder and nuzzled into his neck. "I _always_ listen to you, Pattycake," he said, and gave Patrick a sort of sideways squeeze.

Patrick instantly felt guilty. He glared at Pete's hair, certain Pete had said that on purpose to stop Patrick punching him, or pushing him off and onto the floor. Or punching him _and_ pushing him on to the floor.

"Dude," Joe's voice floated back from the bunk area. "Dude. Why did no-one ever tell me it meant that?"

Pete was still mumbling into the hood of Patrick's sweatshirt, something about banana splits, and the waitress hating them, and a sixty-seven cent tip. Patrick suddenly squinted, half a memory surfacing. "Oh!" he said, "Yeah. Um. I guess I kind of remember. But I didn't mean Bob Bryar. I didn't even know him back then."

Pete smiled against his neck and squeezed him tighter for a second, before letting go and digging his phone, which was vibrating, out of his pocket. He leaned back into Patrick as he answered it.

Joe came back in, his eyes big. "Dude, did _you_ know it meant that?" he asked.

Patrick nodded absently at him.

Joe blinked, and sank into his seat. "People must think I'm a _ho_," he said. "Why did no-one tell me?"

Patrick listened to Pete talk for a minute, the warmth of Pete's body seeping slowly through their sweatshirts, until his other side felt cold by comparison. He thought about that long-ago Dairy Queen. At the time he'd figured he was being smart. _Blond and quiet and blue-eyed_, he'd said. _Drummers_, he'd said, _and pierced lips, oh yeah,_ and he remembered the flush that had crept up his cheeks, the way Pete had crowed and poked him and laughed, and tried to guess who Patrick had a crush on. Patrick hadn't cared. He'd let Pete hang over him and guess a dozen names, and even though it had been a fucking nightmare, Pete hadn't guessed then, hadn't ever guessed, that at the time all Patrick thought about were skinny, brown-haired boys, bass players with stupid tattoos and big ideas.

Patrick smiled to himself, rolled his eyes a little. That was a long time ago, and these days Pete was just… Pete. His best friend and now, apparently, his pimp. He sighed.

Pete flipped his phone shut with a click and a grin, and turned back to him. "You'll see," he said, coaxingly. "Bob is going to love having you live with him. It'll be awesome."

Joe suddenly stood up and pointed at Pete. "Oh my _god_," he said, his eyes huge, "I just remembered who you let play your bass. Dude! Seriously?"

* * *

The first few days of the living together, Bob didn't seem to spend a lot of time in their apartment. It was starting to bother Patrick.

"I don't think Bob wants me here," he told Andy on the phone, half-heartedly wiping the kitchen counter with a paper towel. Bob had gone over to Ray's apartment to eat, and although he hadn't said anything, Patrick hadn't missed the way Bob's eyes had flicked over the empty cartons of take-out food that Patrick had left out.

"Well, you're a slob," Andy said, unsympathetically. "You know how I never stay with you in Chicago? Same reason."

Patrick dropped his paper towel in the trash. "The reason I don't invite you is because you are the worst friend ever."

"Yup," said Andy, unconcerned. "Wait, hang on a second."

There was a muffled conversation on the other end of the line. After a moment, Andy came back. "Joe says to tell you Pete told him Mikey told him that Bob said he's cool with living with you, and he actually likes the zither. So stop being a crybaby."

"_Joe_ said not to be a crybaby?" Patrick said, surprised. "I caught him crying over ET last week."

"ET is a soulless piece of propaganda passing as children's entertainment whose only purpose was to increase domestic consumption of Reese's Pieces," Andy told him, seriously. "And no, the crybaby thing was me."

"Worst friend ever," Patrick said again.

"Yup," said Andy, "Ten o'clock tomorrow?"

Patrick agreed and hung up, then stood and stared at the (mostly) clean counter for a minute. He should just ask Bob if he wanted the place to himself, he decided.

Patrick tried talking to Bob about it a couple of days later, finally broaching the subject at a barbeque Pete organized at his place for the two bands and some other friends who were in town. Catching sight of Bob sitting on his own on the deck, Patrick wandered over casually and sat down next to him.

"So," he said, and Bob flicked a glance at him and then down at the cigarette he was holding.

"Um. So," Patrick said again. "I wanted to thank you for letting me come stay."

Bob shrugged.

Gerard ran past, making little squeaking noises and flailing his arms around in exaggerated Kermit-like panic, closely pursued by Pete, brandishing a water balloon and laughing like a hyena. They disappeared around the corner of the house.

Bob took a long drag of his cigarette.

"The thing is," Patrick said, "The thing is, I don't want you to…"

There was a sudden howl from the direction Pete and Gerard had taken.

"I don't want to…" Patrick started again, after an ominous silence had fallen.

He stopped as Pete ran past in the opposite direction, still laughing, chased by Frank and a stream of water from the hose Frank was holding.

Frank paused in his headlong rush after Pete, and looked at Bob. He looked down at the hose. He looked up at Bob again. He started to smile.

"Don't even think about it, Iero," Bob said, lazily flicking ash from the end of his cigarette onto the ground.

Frank's face lit up, and Patrick scrambled hastily out of his chair and out of reach of the hose.

Probably not the best time to ask, he decided, as he watched the Wrath of Bob descend upon Frank. There was a large splash and a lot of cursing and shrieking as Frank managed to take both Way brothers with him when he was tossed headfirst into the pool.

Patrick watched Bob stroll away from the poolside, shaking his damp hair back from his face and tugging his soaked t-shirt away from his chest. Definitely not the time to ask.

* * *

It turned out though there never really was a good time, and in the end, Patrick pretty much forgot about it. Bob seemed to get used to him being around, Patrick tried to remember to clean up the kitchen once in a while, and they discovered a mutual loathing for the dude in _Deadliest Catch_ that resulted in them watching random episodes together in the hope of seeing him being gnawed to death by a crustacean.

The only remaining problem with his apartment situation was therefore that Patrick was apparently doomed to walk in on Bob having sex.

Patrick stared at the ceiling in Pete's guest room. It wasn't that he hadn't walked in on people having sex before, he thought. It was pretty unavoidable when you lived on a bus with three other guys. For a long time, he'd thought that it wasn't really so much him having terrible timing, no matter what Andy said, as them picking the worst possible moment to get it on in what was after all a semi-public place. He was starting to change his mind though, after walking in on BobandKara, BobandSimon, and eventually, KaraandBobandSimon.

He sighed, and settled the sheets more comfortably over his body. This was better, he told himself firmly. He'd left the apartment, dignity intact, his key to Pete's house in hand, just as Simon and Kara arrived. No-one had been naked, or even half-dressed. He would go back tomorrow, and Bob would be sprawled out on the sofa alone. The only sign of the night before would be the extra breakfast dishes in the sink and the scent of Kara's perfume in the bathroom.

This was definitely better than walking in on them again. Definitely better than seeing Bob all flushed and ruffled, eyes half-closed and face relaxed with pleasure, like a sleepy lion.

Patrick shifted again in the bed.

"Stop wriggling," Pete said, and poked him in the ribs with one pointy finger. "You're the one who's always telling me to get more sleep. How am I supposed to sleep with you _wriggling_ all the time?"

"You could sleep in your own bed," Patrick suggested, grumpily slapping away Pete's hand.

Pete just poked him again. "Lie still."

Patrick subsided, and stared at the ceiling again. Oh yeah. This was definitely better.

* * *

"Where do you keep your porn?" Patrick yelled to Pete from the living room.

"Second shelf on the left," Pete called back. Patrick went to look.

The front door slammed. "Well, the pizza delivery guy will probably have that piece of information on his MySpace within an hour," Pete said, without too much concern, dropping their pizza on the living room table. "I should probably move it to a different shelf."

"I don't think your porn collection would be news unless you were starring in it," Patrick said, distractedly, as he pulled out a couple of DVD boxes. "Is this the one with the thing, with the guys, and the overhead camera?"

Pete glanced at the cover. "No, that's the one with the guy with the moustache," he said.

"Oh," Patrick considered the DVD again. "Hmm."

He turned back to the shelf, before a thought struck him. He turned back to Pete hurriedly. "Please tell me the DVDs labelled in your hand-writing are things you downloaded from the internet, and not… home-made."

"If I told you that I would be admitting copyright theft," Pete said, straight-faced. "And also, lying."

Patrick flinched, and backed away from the shelves. "Dude, never mind."

He opened the pizza box, and glared at Pete while he laughed.

"Why were you raiding my porn collection anyway?" Pete asked, sitting down and stuffing a slice of pizza in his mouth.

"Oh, so, Bob set me up with this porn star," Patrick said, picking up his own slice. "And she…"

He stopped. "Pete? Pete! Are you okay? Jesus, I don't know how to do the Heimlich thing. Dude. Can you breathe?"

He slapped Pete on the back forcefully, and Pete spat out his mouthful of pizza and gasped in a breath. Patrick reached for a napkin and handed it to him.

Pete grabbed his hand. "Dude," he choked out. "Dude, who have you been fighting with?"

Patrick looked at his hand in surprise. He'd forgotten his scraped knuckles. "Oh, um," he said.

Pete frowned at him darkly. "Patrick," he said, and Patrick tried to take his hand back. Pete hung on to it, his fingers smoothing over the rougher patches of skin.

"Don't get all worked up," Patrick said. "It was only Bob."

Pete opened his mouth, but Patrick stopped him. "He didn't hit me back. He said he was sorry. It wasn't a big deal," he said, rapidly.

Pete still didn't let go. "Move in here," he said, abruptly.

Patrick shook his head. "Pete," he said, letting his lips quirk into a smile, "Pete, I fight more with _you_."

Pete's mouth set stubbornly. Patrick stared at him. The seconds ticked away silently.

"I like him. He's cool. It's fine. He thought he was doing a good thing," Patrick said, finally.

There was another long pause, but then Pete nodded. Before Patrick could stop him, he bent his head and kissed Patrick's knuckles gently, before letting go of his hand.

"There," Pete said, "All better."

Patrick felt himself flush, and looked away at the pizza box. "Ugh," he said, finally, "Dude. You couldn't have spit it out somewhere else?"

* * *

Patrick tried hard to show everyone that everything was cool between him and Bob after Bob explained that their friends had been giving him a hard time. It wasn't enough to stop Gerard from pulling him aside when he went to collect Bob from the studio, giving him a confusing speech about Being True To Himself, and hugging him three times.

"What's up with Gerard?" he asked Bob once they were in the car.

Bob waved a hand. "What's ever up with Gee?" he said, "You wanna go shopping for the party tonight?"

Patrick grinned over at him. "Yeah, sure. Oh, dude! Joe was telling me they have like, blow-up cactuses, cacti, whatever, at the store near their place."

He stopped and frowned. "Well, he said they were either cactuses or platypuses, he couldn't totally remember, because he was baked when he saw them, I guess, but either way -- genius!"

Bob laughed, and Patrick looked over at him, grinning. He felt his breath catch at the way Bob looked, leaning back against the car door, his hair golden in the sun and ruffled by the breeze from where he had the window cracked open.

Patrick flashed back to the Dairy Queen, all those years ago. _Drummers,_ he thought. _Blond hair, blue eyes, and pierced lips, oh yeah_.

"Patrick?" Bob asked. "The light's green."

"Oh!" said Patrick, and set off just as the guy behind him leaned on his horn. "Sorry, I was thinking…"

He tailed off, and after a moment Bob said, "Yeah?"

Patrick said nothing for a second. "Yeah," he said, at last. "I wonder if we could make vegan banana splits."

* * *

Bob's room was incredibly neat, untouched by the party that had rampaged through the rest of their apartment. It was also, however, lacking in certain key amenities.

"Sorry," said Bob, displaying the empty condom box. "Forgot to replace it."

Patrick sighed, and mock-glared at him. "We wouldn't have had this problem in my room," he said.

Bob grinned, and tugged him in to kiss him quickly. "Yeah, but will you ever find them in your room?"

Patrick rolled his eyes. "Don't insult the man you are in the process of kicking out of your bed, unless you don't want him to come back," he said, sitting up and grimacing slightly.

Bob lay back against the pillows. "Uh-huh. Hurry back."

Patrick paused on his way to the door, and looked back. He gulped, and broke into a faster walk, smiling when Bob's laughter followed him down the hall to his own room. He flung himself across his bed, reaching for the drawer in his nightstand. He was stirring the contents with a clumsy hand, muttering imprecations when he couldn't immediately turn up what he was looking for, when the cellphone perched on top of his pillows rang.

His hand closed on the box of condoms just as Pete's name flashed up on the phone.

He grabbed both items. "Pete," he said. "Now is a bad time."

Pete, predictably, started talking anyway. "Why answer the phone then?" he said, "Seriously, Patrick, no, I have to tell you this story."

Patrick stood in the doorway of Bob's room, and threw him the box. "No, Pete," he said, and he smiled as Bob groaned and let his head fall back on the bed at the sound of Pete's name. "I really have to go."

"Patrick! Was that _Bob_? Dude, no, don't go, tell me everything," Pete said, but Patrick broke in again.

"I love you, dude, like, so much right now," he said, watching the way Bob's abdomen rippled with silent laughter. "Talk to you in like, two days, okay?"

And he clicked the phone shut on Pete's braying laugh, and walked over to the bed.

* * *


End file.
